


The Big Time

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [23]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beating, Bondage, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Police, Polyamory, Rentboys, Riding Crops, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Poor guy." Foster grins. "His first taste of the good stuff, and it's the cheese in a mousetrap."</p><p>"I know," Terry laughs, stretching out on the back seat. "You'd almost feel guilty, wouldn’t you, if he wasn't a copper."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Time

I run my fingertips over the edge of the paper, pretending like I'm thinking hard. There's not much to think about, really. I knew as soon as I heard the plan exactly which boy it was going to have to be, but if I'm being asked to make a decision, then I need to look like I'm considering it carefully, don't I? So I sit there furrowing my brow, staring at the neatly-typed sheet in front of me.

"Terry Simpson," I say eventually, nodding slowly. "Terry's the boy for this."

"He'll stand a few days inside, will he?" Joe scoffs.

"Sure he will."

"If he cracks up, it'll make things messy."

"He's not going to crack up." I drop the file back down onto the table. "He's been in plenty of times before, hasn't he?"

"Wouldn't know," Joe says, with the corners of his frown starting to curl up a bit. "There's so many of you punks these days, I can't keep track of which one's which."

"Yeah, well." I brush a bit of non-existent dust off my lapel, and fold my arms. "He's made for the job, trust me."

Joe laughs that awful laugh. "The old man trusts you. That's good enough for me."

To be honest, that's what I keep telling myself. The boss trusts me to do this, so I must be good enough to pull it off. The old man trusts my judgement, so I must be worth listening to. If I didn't know what I was doing, he'd have seen right through me, wouldn't he? That's how I keep going, even when I feel so out of my depth you could fit a cruise liner in the water above me.

"Take Foster with you," Joe says, as I stand up to go.

"I thought you said there wouldn't be any trouble?"

"There won't." He looks at me, stony-faced, and shakes his head like I'm the stupidest chump he's seen all day. "But if you're dealing with cops, you take backup."

 

* * *

 

Terry started off as a kind of odd-job man, doing all sorts of bits and pieces for us. I don't think the idea of renting had even occurred to him before the night we called him in at the last minute to replace a no-show. He was one of those boys who doesn't realise he's got something worth selling until you practically smack him in the face with it, but once he got started there was no stopping him. I remember him coming back from a job one night, still a bit drunk from the wine the guy bought him, and he grabbed hold of me and made me look at his palms, saying _Look, Johnny, look, my hands haven't been this soft since I was in middle school!_ Like it was a miracle you could make money without breaking your back. Well, his hands aren't calloused these days, but you can't say he doesn't earn his keep. Not if you've seen his scars.

"Have you met this guy before, then?" Foster says, glancing across at me. I know I should be sitting in the back with Terry, but I can't quite get to grips with the idea of being chauffeured around, even if it's just one of Joe's underlings doing the driving.

"Never had the chance. This is the first time he's had a boy off of us, up til now it's just been cash."

"Poor guy." Foster grins. "His first taste of the good stuff, and it's the cheese in a mousetrap."

"I know," Terry laughs, stretching out on the back seat. "You'd almost feel guilty, wouldn’t you, if he wasn't a copper."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far." I laugh along with him, but if I'm honest there _is_ a bit of me that feels funny about all this. Not guilty, exactly. Mixed-up. I mean, we pay off friendly coppers all the time, and we give them a hand if they get in bother, but this is the first time I've helped them set up one of their own. There's some kind of complicated enemy-of-my-enemy business behind all of this that I can't quite figure out, but whatever it is, there's a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that just won't go away.

"Alright, we're here," Foster says, as we pull up in front of the house. "I'll bring the car around to the end of the alley, so if you have any trouble, you just give me a wave and I'll come and sort him out for you."

I look at him, at those warm brown eyes, at the easy smile framed by that neat dark beard, at those big hands resting on the steering wheel and making it look tiny in comparison, and I can't help coming over all flustered. "I think you're getting soft on me, Foster," I laugh, laying a hand lightly on the broadest part of his thigh. "Maybe after we've wrapped this up, we ought to go and have some celebratory drinks."

"Oh no you don't," Foster tuts, like he's caught a little kid with his hand in the sweet jar. He takes hold of my wrist, more gently than you'd think a bruiser like him could manage, and he moves my hand back over to my own leg. "Don't start that, you know Joe'd have my guts if I broke his rule."

 _His rule._ I should be flattered there's a rule just for me, but it's not flattering, it's irritating. Three new lackeys, he's got, every one of them my type, and every one of them strictly out-of-bounds. I wouldn't be surprised if Joe had hand-picked them specifically to get my mouth watering.

"Alright, have it your way," I say, giving him a smile and a shrug. "Come on, Terry, let's get the stage set up."

"Why's he not allowed to touch you?" the kid says, as soon as we're out of the car. "You're not private property, are you?"

"No, it's my dangerous charms," I laugh. "One touch and he won't be able to see straight, let alone do his job. Like poison, I am."

"You'll have to teach me your ways," Terry says, grinning at me.

"Oh, I reckon you're doing alright on your own." I return the grin and pat him on the back, but as we walk up the garden path together, there's a bit of me thinking that maybe he _could_ stand to learn a thing or two from me. I mean, I'm no expert, but if I can sharpen his technique up a bit and steer him clear of the obvious pitfalls, then everyone wins, right?

"Look at this place." The kid whistles. "I thought we were going to some dingy little terrace, but this is huge."

And he's right, too. It's quite nice, really, for a safehouse. Makes me wonder whether they've got different tiers of them, like first class and third class. Maybe what type you get depends on how much you're worth to them. Every time I've brought one of our boys round to a safehouse, it's been clean and tidy but not particularly fancy. This one's like the kind of big three-storey job you get taken back to by a bank manager, not a copper. Maybe we've hit the big time. Then again, you need a bit of space and a few sturdy beams for the kind of thing this Chief Inspector's into, so maybe a poky little place wouldn't do.

"Now remember," I say, as we head into the living room. "Like I said before, once they've taken you in, just sit tight. You'll be out in a few days, four—"

" _Four at the most_. I know, Johnny, you've told me already." Terry rolls his eyes. "You don't have to keep fussing over me like this, you know. I can handle myself."

"I'm just trying to make sure everything runs smoothly for the boss." I say, aiming for a stern tone, but it comes out prim and starched. "And besides, if I don't look out for you, who else is going to?"

He rolls his eyes again, but there's a smile on his face as he starts stripping off. I've had Terry before, but that was months and months ago, before he started renting. Long enough ago that as I watch him shrugging off his shirt, I find myself taking in all the details like he was brand new. The little trail of wispy dark hair in the middle of his chest, the tiny initials tattooed above his hip, the thin white scars criss-crossing his back. I can remember running my hands over all of that, but it's so vague and foggy I might as well have dreamt it.

"How'd you end up with a chaperone job, anyway?" Terry says, grinning at me as he steps out of his trousers. "No offense, Johnny, but that's like leaving a fox to guard your chickens."

"Hey, if the boss says don't touch you, then I don't touch you. Strictly hands-off, this is." I put my palms up, but my eyes stay glued to the honey-brown curve of his ass. "And besides, you're no chicken, sweetheart."

He gives me a funny look, and then he bursts out laughing and nods. "Can't argue with that."

If anything, though, Terry might be a bit on the young side. This Chief Inspector likes his boys around twenty-five, and Terry's a couple of years shy of that. Still, he's got the unflappable air and the happily weary face of a guy who's been around the block too many times to count, so I figure he's a close enough fit. He's got the right build, too. Tall, lean, not much muscle but a sturdy frame. He looks like he'd break eventually, but you'd have to give him a damn good kicking to get there.

"Come on, Johnny," he says, smirking. "Stop eyeing up the merchandise and get it out on display."

"Watch your mouth," I tut at him, but he's right. _Mind on the job_ , I tell myself, as I help him into the shackles. _Get distracted tonight, and it could all go south_. Which is an admirable intention, but once I've locked the shackles around Terry's wrists and hauled the chain up into the right position, it starts feeling more like a pipe dream. It's five to eight now, so even if this copper's the punctual type, that's five long minutes of waiting with a trussed-up, naked boy, trying not to think about all the things I'd like to do to him. Even just standing there, he looks sort of obscene. The magnolia walls make his skin seem more naked somehow, warmer and darker and smoother. The big burgundy three-piece suite pushed back against the walls makes Terry look scrawnier in contrast, like the whole room was built for someone bigger than me and him. The bare beams above us remind me of one of those fancy holiday cottage brochures, sort of wholesome and healthy and expensive, and that just makes the chains and the boy wearing them seem that bit rougher, that bit cheaper. It makes me want to tighten up that chain until Terry's on his toes, stretched out like he's on a rack. It makes me want to grab hold of that glossy black hair and slap his face until it's as red as the sofa behind him. It makes me want to forget all about chaperoning and setups and signals.

"You've been over to see Mr Middleton's guys a few times, haven't you?" Terry says, distracting me just in time. "What's it like up there? Am I going to die of boredom?"

"You're getting a three-month paid holiday, and you're worried about being bored?"

"I don't know, it just seems a bit funny, having to just sit there and do nothing."

"You'll be doing a lot more than you would if this was a real sting."

"True." Terry laughs, and the chain jangles as he moves.

I start gearing up to give him a lecture about making the most of his opportunities, but the sound of the front door being unlocked interrupts us.

"Alright, that's your cue," I say, going over to the window. "Let's see you earn this holiday."

"Yes, guv," Terry says, grinning. If he had his hands free, I bet he'd have given me a mocking little salute too.

Chief Inspector Dunn looks about as much like a decent, honest copper as any of them do around here, which is to say not much. His suit's too expensive, for a start. It's the kind of finely-pinstriped grey number that usually comes with a fat wallet and a short temper. He's got the same grey shot through his hair too, far more of it than you'd expect on a guy in his forties, and his face is pale, lined, and full of shadows. He looks like he sees plenty of action and not much daylight.

"You've got him ready," Dunn says, nodding. "Good."

 _Of course I've got him ready,_ I want to say. _What, d'you think I can't follow simple instructions?_ But instead I smile and say "He's all yours."

Dunn nods again, but he doesn't reply. He just walks around Terry slowly, giving him the kind of thorough once-over you'd expect if he was buying the boy's contract, not borrowing him for the night. Once he's done a couple of full circuits of the living room, the copper turns to me and says "You're only here to watch?"

"Just to keep an eye on things," I say, giving him a nice warm smile. "Since you're wanting more than the basics."

"Fair enough," Dunn says, and he grabs hold of the chain above Terry's head. "Can you handle more than the basics, boy?"

"Yes, sir," Terry answers him clearly and confidently, just like I coached him. This copper doesn't want backchat, but he doesn't want a shrinking violet either. He wants the sort of polite self-assurance you'd get out of a well-trained lackey, and since I'm the one who picked Terry out, I made damn sure he's going to get it.

"We'll see."

Dunn keeps hold of the chain and grabs Terry's ass with his free hand, digging his nails into the boy's flesh so tight I can see the skin reddening and then whitening under his fingertips. Terry doesn't make a sound, but his eyes drift half-closed, and his cock twitches, and his back arches just slightly. Perfect. He couldn't be playing this any better if I had him on strings.

"Here," Dunn says, slipping his jacket off and passing it to me. "Hang this up."

I nod and hop to it, but it stings. Who does he think he is? I ought to let the thing drop to the floor and stamp on it. But I've got to keep it professional, so I just hang the jacket up on the back of the door, and I focus on watching the copper opening up the fancy leather case on the table. I always try to pay attention to moments like this, because it seems to me you get more of an idea what some guys are about by watching them prep their equipment than you do by talking to them. So I watch as Dunn takes the riding crop out, as he handles it carefully, but not fussily. He doesn't stand there looking at the thing like some guys do. He just settles his fingers in the right grip around the handle, runs his other hand over the shaft of it once, and then comes back over to where Terry's standing.

"Right, then," he says, as he brings the crop down lightly across Terry's ass. It's just a gentle little tap, barely touching the kid at all, and the next dozen or so strokes are more of the same, except Dunn moves the crop down a little bit each time, until the whole of the boy's ass and thighs have had a touch of the leather. Then he starts at the top again, only now he swings the crop harder, so that this time each stroke brings a faint pink blush to Terry's skin. It's so measured and methodical that you'd think the copper wasn't getting a kick out of it at all.

There's something kind of admirable about the way Dunn just gets right down to business. Most old guys who can be bothered to hit you with something besides their bare hands, they want some big elaborate play-acted story to justify the beating they're giving you. I've been a thieving houseboy, a pickpocket, a burglar, a delinquent schoolboy, you name it. One guy I used to see regularly wanted the same scene every time: me and a younger boy, with the other boy playing the role of his man-eating 'son'. He'd walk in and catch me fucking the other boy, give both of us a lecture and a vicious hiding with his belt, and then fuck me while the other boy watched, to 'teach me a lesson'. Same thing, every time, down to the last word of those lectures. One night, I suggested toward the end that maybe he'd like to fuck the other boy too, so he could really get his money's worth. _Don't be absurd_ , the old guy said, looking at me like I was stark raving mad. _That'd be incest_.

"You can take it, can you?" Dunn says, swinging the crop down much harder now, heavy enough that Terry breathes in sharply and jerks away from the blow.

"Yes, sir." The kid's voice is still clear and firm, even if his face is red and his hands are curled into fists.

"Good." The copper sounds genuinely pleased, impressed even, and not at all mocking. He keeps going, beating Terry slower than before, giving him a few seconds between strokes. Now the blows leave raised red stripes behind them, each one tipped with a dark purplish smudge that looks like a cigarette burn. Terry's still keeping quiet, but you can see in his face how much of a struggle it is now. I know how he feels. Pretty soon he'll hit the point where he couldn't keep still if he tried, and from then on it'll be just a matter of time til he's crying out and begging the old guy to put the crop down and fuck him.

"You're a tough one, aren't you?" Dunn says, grabbing a handful of the kid's ass and squeezing. The way Terry gasps and lurches away from his touch, you'd think the copper's hand was electrified.

"Thank you, sir," the kid says, with a little catch in his voice. That's a trick question, that is, and it's the type that's tripped me up more times than I care to remember. You say yes, and the old guy beats harder you for acting cocky. You say no, and the old guy beats you harder for trying to be modest. So the only thing you can do is smile and say thank you, and hope a bit of politeness does the trick.

"Let's see how far that toughness stretches." Dunn gives a rough little chuckle and swings the crop down again, swift and hard now, like he's trying to slice right through the boy. Those raised stripes are turning into one big mass of raw dappled skin, a blur of pink and red and purple that looks lurid against the sedate brown of Terry's back and legs. Every time the copper lays another stroke down, the kid twists and jerks against the chain, biting back the kind of yelps I wouldn't be able to choke down, balling his hands up into fists so tight his nails must be cutting his palms to shreds. Dunn just keeps going, slashing the crop against every inch of the kid's ass and thighs, over and over, and finally Terry cries out in a hoarse, shaky voice, howling out something that's barely a word but clearly a plea. You might think the old guy would take that as his cue to stop and gloat, but Dunn doesn't bother with that. He's forced a cry out of the kid, but he wants a lot more. He keeps on swinging the crop down, and now the cork's out of the bottle, Terry can't keep his mouth shut. His cries turn into yelps, and the yelps turn into howls of pain, and the howls have pitiful words mixed in, the kind you end up saying eventually even if you swore you wouldn't.

"Please!" Terry's voice cracks as he begs. He's pitching this so perfectly, if I didn't know better I'd think he really couldn't take any more. "Don't— Please—"

"You want me to stop, do you?" Dunn laughs, and swings the crop down across the worst of the marks. "Stop and do what?"

I guess this is the nearest Dunn gets to the kind of complicated play-acting I was telling you about before. He wants to make out they're striking a bargain, like he's agreeing to stop the beating in exchange for a piece of the kid's ass. It doesn't make much sense to me, since Terry's chained-up, so surely Dunn could just take what he wanted anyway, but since when do these things really make sense?

"Fuck me," Terry says, twisting around to look at the copper. "Use me, do whatever you want to me, I'll do anything, please, just—"

Dunn shuts him up with another stroke of the crop, but this one's the last. Before Terry can start begging again, the copper unhooks the shackles from the chain and lets him drop to the floor. Terry stumbles to his knees and stays there, but he lays on the cowering and whimpering a bit too thick for my tastes. I'll have to have a word with him about not hamming it up too much, when he comes back.

"Alright, then." Dunn picks up the bottle of lube in one hand, grabs Terry's arm with the other, and drags the kid over to the sofa. I move across to stand by the lamp next to the window, making like I'm just getting out of their way, but now we're coming up to the finale, I find myself eager to get it over with. I watch the copper bending Terry over, sliding a couple of fingers into him, warming him up and spreading him open, and the whole time I'm willing Dunn to hurry up, to start fucking the kid so I can pull the alarm cord and get out of here. When he finally pulls the kid back onto his cock, I realise I've been holding my breath, and it takes all my self-control to just casually lean over and flick the lamp on.

Dunn looks around, and I say "It's getting dark, you want to see what you're doing, right?" as nonchalantly as I can, but I can see in his eyes that he knows what's up. He doesn't even look surprised when we hear the front door being kicked open, and then the clatter of half a dozen pairs of heavy boots making their way down the hall. That’s my cue to disappear, so I throw one last smile at Terry, and slip out into the kitchen. On my way, I hear Inspector Cole's voice, smooth and rich with amusement.

"Well," he says, tutting. "What a disappointing sight this is."

"It was only a matter of time." Dunn gives an amiable little chuckle, like all of this is perfectly natural, hardly worth bothering about. "You'll get it eventually too, you know, Cole. We all do, sooner or later."

I close the back door behind me, and clamber up over the garden wall with about as much speed and grace as you'd expect out of a guy who hasn't had to make a quick getaway for years. When I drop down into the alley behind it, there's a friendly face waiting for me, just like we arranged.

"I'm tempted to run you in, you know," Hudson says, blocking my path. "Just for kicks." He looks at me, sweeping those heavy-browed eyes slowly down over the length of my body like he's planning exactly where he's going to put the bruises, and that look feels so sincere it gives me the shivers. But I haven’t got time for that, and neither has he.

I push those shivers down, and grin up at him. "Yeah, and I'm tempted to give you a reason to, only I don't think your Inspector would like that very much, would he?"

"No," he says, stepping aside and giving me a slap on the back. "And neither would the DCC."

I want to stop and ask him what that's supposed to mean, but there's no time. I settle for giving him a cheery goodbye wave as I run off down the alley toward the car.

"You took your time," Foster says, once I'm in the passenger seat. "For a minute there I thought I was going to have to come and cut in."

He glances at me, just briefly, but I can see the hardness behind those warm eyes and that casual smile. He'd have gone toe-to-toe with Hudson without a second thought. The fact he'd have done it for the likes of me, well, I don't know what to make of that.

"Really, Foster," I laugh, trying to play it cool as we pull away. "I never pegged you as the jealous type."

 

* * *

 

When the boss looks me up and down, suddenly it feels like I'm being jabbed by every one of the pins stuck in this suit. The tailor looks as nervous as I am, and as we wait for the old man's verdict, I almost feel sorry for the little guy. The boss's got a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you're less than nothing, even standing here in a month's wages' worth of tailoring.

"Yes," he says, finally. "Yes, that'll do."

Me and the little tailor start breathing again, but the old man must reckon breathing easily is bad for my health, because as soon as the tailor's taken the suit away and I'm back in my street clothes, the boss leans back in his chair and says "Johnny," in exactly the tone that makes my heart leap up into my throat.

I freeze, and try to look casual. "Yes, boss?"

"Christopher tells me you'd like to move into a management role," he says, pinning me with a look that feels like a lamp shining right in my eyes. "You can see yourself looking after the boys, can you?"

"What? No," I say, forgetting who I'm talking to for a minute, because my head's suddenly full of all the names I'd like to call Miller the next time I see him. "No, sir, I didn't say that exactly, I just said maybe we ought to have someone looking after them full-time."

The old man keeps on looking at me, not smiling, and his tone is like granite. "Do you think you could handle the job?"

 _This is stupid_ , I want to say. I only started thinking about all of this last month. Of course I can't handle a job like that. I haven't got the experience, I'm not old enough, and I can barely look after myself, let alone two dozen renters. You'd have to be mad to throw me in at the deep end like that.

"I asked you a question, boy."

I can feel his eyes on me, skewering me like I was made of paper. I can feel him waiting for me to give the wrong answer, but all I can do is brace myself and say "I don’t know, sir."

"Well, I do," he says, with a cold little chuckle. "I'd be a fool to put you in a role like that. You're nowhere near ready for it yet."

A fool? That's a bit harsh. But I don't want to argue with the old man, so I just say "Yes, sir," and nod, and then suddenly it hits me—'yet'? I'm not ready for it _yet_?

"I've been planning to expand that branch of the business for a while," he carries on, "but you're in no position to manage the few boys we already have on our books, let alone a fresh cohort."

"No, sir," I say, answering on autopilot, trying to figure out why he's telling me all this.

"I could bring in an outsider to manage them, of course," the boss says, sounding almost like he's talking to Miller, not me. "But I've always preferred to promote from within. That's the way you build loyalty— _personal_ loyalty, Johnny, not allegiance to a title or a role. That's the only kind of loyalty worth a damn."

I know I should say something, but I can't. All I can manage is to stand there listening to him, scrabbling to keep up with what he's telling me, trying to figure out what it all means.

"Personal loyalty is what makes you so eager to follow my orders," he says, standing up and putting a hand on my shoulder. "And one day, it'll be what drives those boys to follow yours."

 

* * *

 

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, when I see myself wearing one of the suits the boss's bought me, I feel like I'm looking at a painting of someone who doesn't exist. That guy in the reflection, he's got my narrow eyes and my lopsided smile, but that's as far as the resemblance goes. He's standing there in brand new grey worsted that's been cut somehow so he looks taller and leaner, and he's knotting a deep lavender tie that cost more than my first suit did all on its own. His hair's freshly-cut, combed back neatly, with just enough pomade on it to make it gleam in the lamplight. His face is tanned and smooth, except for a few lines around the eyes and mouth, the type that crinkle up when he smirks. He's almost always smirking. He looks like he knows what he's doing, like he's just sailing along calmly, never fretting, taking things as they come. He looks like a complete stranger to me.

The clock on the mantel chimes half past, giving me a gentle little slap in the face. The boss said to be at the townhouse by nine, which in practice means I need to be there at a quarter to, so I need to get going. The old man's message said to be well-dressed, so I reckon he means I should wear this new suit, given that it only arrived from the tailor's this morning. The thing is, the suit was a present for doing alright on the Dunn job. And that conversation the boss had with me during the last fitting for the suit, that's been swimming around in my head ever since. Putting two and two together, tonight must be something to do with the entertainment manager job. It must be.

So as I make my way over to the townhouse, I can't help going through the different possibilities. The old man must have arranged something to give me a bit of training, but what's it going to be? Maybe it's a few new boys, so I can get to grips with the coaching and mentoring side. Maybe it's a big client, someone I'd have to deal with regularly if I got this job. Maybe it's someone who does the same kind of work for another organisation, someone who can show me the ropes first-hand. Maybe it's Patrick.

My hand's shaking a bit as I reach out to ring the doorbell, but then I think _No, this isn't my hand, it belongs to that guy in the mirror, the one who's got it all under control._ It's a cheap trick, but it works, and by the time my finger hits the button, the trembling's all but stopped.

"You ain't supposed to be here til nine, shove off." Bryant says, as he opens the door. He's like this whenever he's on doorman-duty, and I reckon if he didn't have Foster keeping him company he'd have slammed the door in my face.

"Oh, stow it," the big guys says, and he puts a gentle hand on Bryant's back to move him out of the way. "Come in, Johnny, don't mind him. He's just sore that he lost the last hand."

"The last _four_ hands," Bryant snarls, shrugging Foster's hand off and giving him a scowl that should really earn him a smack in the face. "Which is hardly surprising since you've been fiddling the cards all night."

"Come on, now, you know I wouldn't do a thing like that." Foster puts his hand on the little guy's shoulder and rubs it gently. "Crawford wouldn't stand for it, for a start."

He's right, too. Crawford's the chief of their little team, so by rights he should be looking after the two of them even-handedly, but it's plain as day who the favourite is. Bryant'd do anything for Crawford, and Crawford for his part seems just as sweet on the little guy. Wouldn't even consider the job unless his little friend got taken on too. All of which works out as a brilliant arrangement for Bryant, because if it wasn't for Crawford holding his leash, he would've loud-mouthed himself out of the job or right into the river within a week.

"Anyway," I say, as I push past them, "you're only playing for matchsticks, so why're you getting sore in the first place?"

"Cheating's cheating," Bryant snaps. "It's the principle of the thing."

I leave them to it, and as I head up the stairs to the first floor, I can hear Foster's deep, warm laugh. "Oh, you've got principles, have you? " he says softly, like an indulgent uncle. "First I've heard of it."

Usually if I'm called over to the townhouse, it's either for a job briefing in the study, or to entertain the boss in the lounge. I've never been sent up to the first floor sitting room, that's always been off-limits. I used to joke to Miller that the first floor rooms must be the boss's equivalent of a gentlemen's club at home, with a strict age-limit in place to make sure he gets some peace and quiet. Then Miller pointed out that he's about the same age I am, and he gets summoned up there all the time, so I guess the rule isn't 'no under-30s', it's 'no punks allowed'. But here I am, standing on the first floor landing, knocking on the sitting room door. Maybe I'm not just a cheap little punk any more. That's right, I can do this. Whatever tonight's going to be about, I can do it. I'm feeling so sure of myself that when the old man tells me to come in, my hands are barely even shaking.

It's a smaller room than I expected. Just a big leather armchair, a low two-seater, a coffee table and a few cabinets. Nothing on the steel-grey walls except a clock, nothing on the table except an ashtray and a decanter of something dark. It's like one of those special enclosures they have for exotic animals at the zoo, where everything's set up to be nice and toasty for the resident, but about as hospitable as the surface of Mars to anyone else. I feel like one of the stranded spacemen in Tommy's comics, slowly running out of air while the villain watches me squirm. And that villain's enjoying the show, no doubt about that. The boss is sitting in the leather armchair, cradling a drink in one hand, watching me with a kind of chilly amusement in his eyes. Joe's standing behind him, smoking, with the sort of scowl on his face that means someone's going to get a pasting. A fainter-hearted guy would probably baulk at that, but I can't afford to be timid, not if I want this promotion.

"You wanted to see me, boss?" I say, closing the door behind me and throwing my best wide-beam smile at the old man and Joe.

"Look at you, dressed up like a dog's dinner," Joe says, leaning over to stub out his cigarette. "It's a waste of good money, getting a suit like that made up for trash like you."

I shrug, and I keep that smile fixed in place. "If I'm going to do bigger jobs, I've got to look the part, haven’t I?"

"Bigger jobs?" he scoffs, coming up close.

"Sure," I say, tamping my smile down into a smirk, and looking right past Joe to the old man. "Like whatever it is you've got lined up for me tonight, right, boss?"

The old man just smiles, and puts down his glass.

"Listen to this punk," Joe says, circling around to stand behind me. I want to twist around to look at him, but I don't want to turn away from the old man, so I just stand stock still and try not to flinch as Joe gives one of those awful, rough laughs and says "You think you're a big-shot now, do you?"

Trick questions. Always with the trick questions. "Maybe," I say, shrugging. "Bigger than I was, anyway."

There's no right answer, I know that, but as I look at the boss, it feels like maybe I picked the worst wrong answer of all. His eyes are fixed on me. His hands are folded in his lap, perfectly still. The lamplight shines on the white in his hair, the silk of his tie, the metal of his cufflinks. He looks like a marble statue, cold and hard, remote and completely unyielding. I wonder if this is what he looks like to a guy who's about to get fired.

"You've been with us for a while now, Johnny," he says, finally. "You're becoming ambitious, starting to think about your next step—as well you should. Nothing lasts forever, especially in our business. You're right to look to the future, just as Christopher is." He pauses there, reaching to pick up his drink. "But you've got a long way to go, Johnny. A long, hard way."

There's a sulky little part of me that wants to argue with him, a part that wants to interrupt the old man and tell him he's underestimating me, that I could do that job right now if he'd give me a chance. My ego's as perverse as any other bit of me. Leave it alone, and it'll cower in the corner like a frightened dog. Smack it around a bit, and it punches right back, suddenly twice the size and twice as sensitive. So it's a struggle to keep my mouth shut, and the boss must be able to see that struggle in my eyes, the same way he sees everything else in there.

"If you do as I tell you, you'll go far. I've no doubt about that," he says, maybe a fraction of a degree warmer than before. "But no matter how far you go, no matter how high you climb," he carries on, and now his tone is hard and icy again, as he points one bone-white finger at me, "don't you _ever_ forget your place, boy."

I can feel his control, his power, closing around me like a fist, covering me over, swallowing me up. It's like finding shelter on a cold night.

"Yes, sir," I say, giving the old man the most confident smile I can manage. "I won't forget."

"No," the boss says, glancing over my shoulder at Joe, giving him the nod. "No, you won't."

The minute the old man gives him the signal, Joe's on me like a shot, grabbing my shoulders, pulling my jacket down so it traps my arms, spinning me around with enough force that when his hand collides with my face, I feel like I'm getting it twice as hard. Then he grabs hold of my tie and yanks me forward, crushing that nice lavender silk in his fist, and when I'm close enough that I can see the grain of his stubble, he gives another one of those nasty laughs and backhands me.

"You're nothing but a cheap little hood," he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair. "All the nice suits in the world couldn't cover up what a piece of trash you are."

I get the message. I do. I know this is a lesson, and I understand the point that's going to get beaten into me, but somehow I just can't take it quietly. Instead I find myself gritting my teeth as Joe yanks my head back, staring up at him as defiantly as I can manage. "Maybe," I laugh. "But I'm doing pretty well for a piece of trash, aren't I?"

He shoves me back, hard enough to make me stagger, and before I can right myself he kicks my legs out from under me so I hit the floor hard, sprawling out on the carpet like a well-dressed sack of cement. All my bones ache from the impact, and my cheek's still burning from the slap he gave me, and all of that adds up to a great big flashing sign saying _Go on, keep baiting him, see how far he'll go_.

"Come on," I say, grinning up at him, "why don't you take the kid gloves off and really give it to me?"

"Just can't stop running that mouth, can you?" he says, bringing his heel down on my ribs. The slam of it shakes me, spears me right through with a hot bolt of pain, but when I flinch, it's half because of that and half because of the dusty footprint his shoe leaves on my jacket.

"Yeah? Well why don't you try shutting me up, tough guy?" I snap, suddenly angry. _Genuinely_ angry. I guess these days messing up my outfit is crossing a line, and when Joe spots the look in my eyes, he laughs like it's the funniest thing he's seen all day.

"Bothers you, does it?" he says, reaching down to grab hold of my lapels. One hard tug spreads the jacket wide open, sending the buttons scattering off across the carpet, and when I scowl up at Joe, he gives me another nasty laugh and a smack in the face. "You think you're really something, don't you?"

Now, I'm not stupid. I know Joe wouldn't do a thing the boss hadn't already okayed. Everything that goes on in this room's got the old man's seal of approval on it, I know that, but somehow I still find myself looking up at him, checking whether he really is happy to see Joe wrecking the suit. He's happy, alright. The old man's leaning back in his armchair, watching all this with a slight, quiet smile on his lips. He looks so happy with this that I start wondering whether he had this planned all along, before he even sent me for the first fitting.

"Yeah, I think I'm _something_ ," I say, looking at Joe again, trying to push down the anger that bubbles up every time I think about the torn-off buttons and the footprint on my chest. "Something you've been wanting to get your hands on all day, right?"

"Sure," he says, kicking me in the side, swift and hard. "If the boss wants me to get my hands dirty, I'm not going to argue."

I try to push myself up off the floor, but Joe brings his foot down on my throat before I can get out of the way, and all of a sudden I'm flat on my back again, pressed to the carpet, with what feels like half of his bodyweight bearing down on my windpipe. The pressure, the cold hard force of it, the thought of being crushed underfoot, all of it gets me so overheated that I can't help groaning.

"You filthy little punk," he says, leaning harder on me, grinding his shoe against my throat like he's stubbing out a cigarette. "Nothing gets you hotter than being shown where you belong, does it?"

 _Nothing_ , I want to reply, but all I can manage is a strangled little noise. Finally he steps back, and finally I can breathe again, but I don't get a chance to catch my breath. Before I've swallowed down a second lungful of air, Joe grabs hold of my hair and hauls me up to my knees.

"Look at you," he says, dragging me forward and forcing my face against his groin, grinding the bulge of his cock against my lips. "The more you get hurt, the more you want this, isn't that right?"

I wheeze out a muffled _Yeah_ against the cloth of his trousers, but it's not enough, it's never enough. He yanks my head back and slaps my cheek, and this time I answer loud and clear.

"Course I do," I say, smirking up at him, letting him watch as I slide my hand down into my lap. "Only, can you go a bit rougher on me? The gentle approach doesn't do it for me."

Joe grabs hold of my tie, yanking it like a choke-chain, and slaps me without saying a word. There's a backhand hot on the heels of that, and when he's done my cheeks are burning, but not half as much as my pride burns when he tugs the tie undone and throws it aside like an old rag. It's stupid, but I can't help flinching as he grabs my shirtfront in both fists, and when he yanks the shirt wide open I wince, as if tearing the buttons off a piece of jacquard is more painful than any smack in the face. It _hurts_ , alright, and the sting of it gets me as overheated as a fist in the ribs or a kick in the teeth.

"Joe," the boss says. "Clear the table off and put him over it."

Joe nods, and moves the decanter and the ashtray over to one of the cabinets, tidying them away with no attitude at all. It's funny, but somehow, seeing him do that makes all of this click in my head. Joe must be a good fifteen years older than me, and about hundred times as mean, and yet if the boss says to do something, he just _does_ it, like there's no job beneath him. Well, _I'm_ his job right now, and if I'm not beneath him I don't know what is.

"Get down there," he says, grabbing hold of me by the shoulders and slamming me forward. My chest hits the coffee table hard, and before I know it Joe's got my wrists in his hand, pinning them behind my back. Something cool and soft slides around them, and I can't help wincing. That tie cost so much it made my eyes water, but to Joe it might as well be a length of cheap rope. To him, right now it feels like I might as well be any of the cheapest boys on our books, the ones who don't specialise, the ones who just kneel there and take whatever you give them. He reaches underneath me and unfastens my belt, and when he yanks my trousers down I can hear the buttons ripping free and the seam tearing, hours of that tailor's work going down the drain, taking my pride along with it. I can't help glancing up at the boss again, half hoping for a flicker of sympathy, but half hoping for exactly what I get. The old man looks down at me with nothing but faint, cold amusement in his eyes, and he might as well have reached down and slapped me himself.

"Hold still." Joe orders, as he grabs hold of my hips.

"Why don't you make me?" I say, trying to sound as defiant as I did half an hour ago, but it's no good, I'm too far gone. I can barely keep the need out of my voice. Joe lubes me up quickly, slicking so much of the stuff over my ass that when he sinks his fingers into me, the sound it makes is so wet and obscene that I can't help moaning. Then he pulls his hand away, reaches down and wipes it clean on the side of my trousers, like the fancy cloth's no better than a cheap handkerchief to him. I want to squirm away from him, to flail my arms and push him back, but he's got one hand on my waist and one spreading the cheeks of my ass apart, so I'm going nowhere. He presses forward, forcing his cock into me without a shred of mercy, barely giving me a second to get used to it before he starts to move inside me. You can tell he means business, right from the start. He fucks me like he's on a deadline, pounding into me in short, hard strokes that slam me against the table every time.

"Harder," the boss says, and when I glance up, he's looking right at me as he gives the order. "Break him, Joe."

The way the old man looks at me, the way he smiles slightly as Joe steps up the pace, as each thrust knocks a groan out of me, I feel like I'm just a toy being kicked around for his amusement. I feel like nothing, no-one, just a bit of light entertainment, not even worth paying for. Looking up into those hard grey eyes, I feel like the gutter's too good for me.

"Harder…" I beg, like I'm just a flimsy echo of the old man's order. There's no fight left in me now, no defiance, nothing except the feeling of Joe's cock pounding into me over and over, filling me up and stretching me wide open, grinding my pride away into dust. The boss wanted me broken, and I feel like I'm halfway there already.

"Just look at this punk," Joe laughs, close to my ear. He grabs hold of my hair in one hand, wrenching me upright, and his other hand slides down to grip my cock, just once, just for a second, but it's tight enough to make me whimper and thrust forward, desperate to keep hold of that feeling. Then his hand's gone again, back down on my hip, and all I can do is stare up at the boss and beg him to let me come, to tell Joe to touch me again, to let me feel that hand again, just for a minute, just for a second, anything, whatever I can get. The words come out in a long, jagged rush, and when I run out of breath, the old man just chuckles and looks right past me.

"Alright, Joe, that's enough."

Joe shoves me back down over the table, pinning me down with one hand, and keeps on fucking me. His hips slam against my ass, shaking me and the table underneath me like he doesn't care if he breaks me in two, and maybe a dozen strokes later he hisses something I can't catch and pulls out roughly, just in time to let me have it right across the back. A few splashes of come hit my ass and my hands, but he aims so the rest of it sprays across the jacket and tie, spattering the fabric with heavy warm streaks that seep right through to my skin. When he's done, he tugs my shirt down and wipes his cock dry with the hem of it, and when I twist around to scowl at him, he just laughs.

"Bring him over here." the boss orders, standing up.

Joe gets about as much of a chance to catch his breath as I ever do, but the way he hops to it, you'd think he wasn't even tired. He grabs hold of my shoulders and hauls me across to kneel in front of the old man, and once I'm in position he keeps hold of me, one hand on my shoulder and one in my hair, yanking my head back so I have to stare up at the boss. I watch the old man unbuttoning his fly slowly. I watch him taking his cock out, stroking his fist over it, running his thumb over the curve of the head of it, tracing the path I want more than anything to lick with my tongue. I watch all of it, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm tugging against Joe's grip, leaning forward, trying to get a taste of the boss's skin. But I don't get far. Joe yanks my head back sharply, and his other hand comes around to grab my jaw, forcing my mouth wide open.

"Forward," the old man says. "Slowly."

He watches my face as Joe pushes me down, and the look in his eyes is so cold and distant I can't even guess what he's thinking. What does it feel like to have a boy so far below you, so disposable, so completely unimportant, to have a boy like that on his knees in front of you, sucking your cock as greedily as if you'd picked him up fresh off the street? What does it feel like to know you could throw him away right now, if the mood struck you? What does it feel like to look down at a boy like that and see him back staring up at you? I've no idea, but I don't get the chance to wonder about it for long. Joe's fist tightens up in my hair, and he shoves my head down, forcing me to swallow the old man's cock, making me take more and more of it, until my face is jammed down against the boss's lap and my throat is working desperately, trying to stay open and trying to push him away all at once.

"Hold him still."

The hand on my jaw moves up to the back of my head, and the fist in my hair tightens up so much it feels like he's trying to rip it right out. I can't move an inch. All I can do is try to keep my throat open, try to keep breathing steadily, try to keep it together while the old man starts to fuck my throat in long, slow, deep thrusts. My lips are raw, my jaw aches like I've been pistol-whipped, and I can feel spit running down my chin, dripping down onto my neck, cooling as it trickles along my chest. My throat's just a wet hole for him to use, my whole body's nothing more than a toy, and knowing that gets me so hot I can't help struggling. I pull against the tie, trying to get my hands free so I can finally take care of myself, but the silk around my wrists only seems to get tighter and tighter.

"You're going nowhere," Joe laughs. "Kneel there and take it like a good little punk, and maybe when the boss's had enough of that cheap mouth, if you're lucky he'll let you swallow a few drops."

The funny thing is, an hour ago the thought of this suit getting trashed made me furious, but now I _want_ it. I keep on sucking the old man's cock, taking it as deep in my throat as I can, but deep down I want him to pull out and finish all over me. I want to see the rest of this outfit spattered and sodden with come. I want to have his scent all over me, I want to feel the warmth of it against my skin, I want to see it glistening in thick white streaks against the purple and grey of the suit. I want it so much that all the moans he's driving out of me, all the pathetic little noises that get buried in his lap, they all boil down to that one plea. _Come all over me_ , I want to beg, _ruin this suit, no, ruin me!_ When the boss finally pulls out and starts to work his hand over his cock, I find myself arching my back, trying to push myself closer to him, pleading for it with my whole body. I don't even have the words now to beg out loud. All I can do is stare up at his face as he lets me have it, trying my hardest to plead with my eyes, trying to say thank you with the hoarse little moans spilling out of my lips, as he finally gives me what I want. I glance down, at the wet white streaks soaking into my shirt, darkening the cloth and warming my skin, and then I look up at the old man, at the cold grey of his eyes, at the faint smile on his lips, and I can feel that fist closing around me again, the one that feels like shelter and control and possession. I lean into it, sagging forward against him, and at last I can talk again.

"Thank you," I say, breathless and rough. "Thank you, sir."

 

* * *

 

It's stupid, really. Even if I bumped into someone from one of the other flats, they'd hardly look me in the eye, let alone raise an eyebrow, but I still find myself shutting the front door as quietly as I can and heading up the stairs instead of taking the lift. My cheeks are still hot at the thought of someone seeing the state of my suit, even if that someone'd probably rather throw themselves out the nearest window than risk giving me a funny look.

When I let myself into the flat, it's deadly quiet, so I guess Tommy got bored hanging around waiting for me and went out. There's a bit of me that misses him, but on the other hand at least I don't have to put up with the kid interrogating me about what went on at the townhouse. At least I can have a bit of peace and quiet. I go through into the living room, trying to decide whether to bother with a shower or just go straight to bed, and that's when I see the boxes. Four of them, stacked up on the rug in the middle of the room, all with the tailor's little silver logo on the side. On the top of the pile, there's a scrap of notepaper covered in Tommy's scrawl.

> _Out helping Mack and Davis load the lorries, these came while you were gone, I've finished all the orange, sorry_

I put the note on the side next to the empty bottle he hasn’t tidied up, and start opening the boxes. I'd like to say I knew what was going to be in them before I even took the top off, but I guess I'm always going to be half a step behind the boss, even on a good day. It's exactly same suit, a brand new second copy of what I'm wearing, down to the purple shirt and the lavender tie. I feel like there should be a clean, pressed version of _me_ standing there along with it. What am I supposed to make of all this? What's the old man saying? _No matter how messed up you get, I'll make you good as new_? Maybe. _I can buy you, destroy you, and have you replaced as easily as ordering a new suit_? More like it. Who knows, though. I feel like I'm trying to decipher one of the secret codes in the back of Tommy's comics.

Well, whatever the message is, it'll still be there in the morning. I leave the new suit where it is, and start taking off the one I'm wearing. At first I find myself folding the stuff up and putting it neatly on the chair next to my bed, and when I realise what I'm doing, it makes me laugh. I was planning on sending this suit to the cleaners and then seeing if it could be mended, but I guess I don't have to worry about that after all. This lot can all be thrown away, like it was nothing. I gather the suit up in a heap and shove it in a bag, and I try not to think about exactly how much money the boss spent on teaching me this lesson.

Then I stop and fish the tie out of the bag. It's crumpled and stained, and as I tuck it away in the drawer next to my bed, I can still smell the come and sweat on it. I can see the creases where the knot tightened as I struggled. I can feel the spots of dried lube where Joe grabbed onto it like a leash. That tie's dirty and ruined, just like I am. I'd be mad to throw it away.


End file.
